


the hanged man

by ictus



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Codependency, Drug Use, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Pre-Canon, Sibling Incest, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-07-19 17:11:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19977595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ictus/pseuds/ictus
Summary: Klaus has always been a well of gravity at the centre of Ben's life, an inexorable force that drags him into his orbit. Even in death, Ben can’t escape him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).



> opheliahyde, your letter was amazing and gave me so much to work with! Your prompts were hugely inspiring and this was a joy to write. Huge thank you to asuralucier for the beta ♥

_The Hanged Man is the card of ultimate surrender. It represents being suspended in time, martyrdom, and sacrifice to the greater good._

: : :

“Where do you go?”

Klaus’s voice is so soft it’s almost lost to the sound of running water. They’re the first words he’s spoken in hours, and it’s enough to make Ben look up from his Pushkin. Even from his spot on the bathroom floor he can see that Klaus’s pupils are huge, but the way he’s able to focus on Ben suggests the ketamine’s started to wear off. Soon he’ll be chasing the next high—weed or benzos to soften the comedown—but right now he’s edging back into reality, inch by inch.

He’s not still not lucid enough to realise the tub’s been overflowing for the last twenty minutes.

“Where do I go when?” Ben asks slowly.

“You know, when I—” he rubs his nose in a way that Ben interprets to mean _get high_.

Ben’s chest is seized by a strange tightness. He watches Klaus’s eyes go in and out of focus as he considers his response, waiting until Klaus’s gaze is fixed on him before replying.

“Klaus. I don’t _go_ anywhere.”

“Oh,” he says softly.

For a long time there’s nothing but the sound of water spilling over the rim of the tub until Klaus, as if in a trance, reaches for the joint on the windowsill, brings it to his lips, and lights up.

: : :

Ben is twelve when Klaus slips into his bed for the first time.

“Ben. _Ben_. You awake?”

Ben’s breath catches in his throat. Even from across the room Klaus sounds hesitant, his voice whisper-soft in the darkness. He doesn’t wait for a response, just closes the space between them, cautious tiptoes on the hardwood floor.

“I had a nightmare,” Klaus murmurs, a little unnecessarily. Klaus only ever comes to him when he has nightmares. Ben lies stock-still in an imitation of sleep, but Klaus pays him no mind. He just peels back the covers and settles in next to him.

“There was a girl,” he says, burrowing into Ben’s side. “She was—someone had stabbed her. Blood was everywhere, on the floor, the walls. I tried to open my mouth to scream but I couldn’t. My jaw was wired shut. Couldn’t make a sound.” His voice sounds wet, like he’s holding back tears. Ben’s hand itches with the desire to reach for him.

“She’s still here,” he says after a long pause. “She followed me here. She’s right by your desk. Watching us.”

Ben shivers, full-bodied and involuntary. He knows he’s given himself away, that he’s not fooling anyone, but Klaus doesn’t call him on it, just nuzzles closer, his breath warm on Ben’s neck. Ben cracks open an eye to focus on the spot where a moonbeam illuminates his desk, his vision slowly swimming into focus.

There’s nothing there. There never is.

“You’ll protect me, right? You’ll use your powers on her?”

Ben wants to tell him that it doesn’t work like that, that he can’t use his powers on something he can’t see. He wants to say that a ghost is no more vulnerable to a monster attack than it is to a handgun. But Klaus draws him closer, the two of them pressed side by side in the too small bed, and Ben finds himself nodding in spite of himself, the charade of sleep long forgotten. 

Klaus sighs in response, his breathing beginning to slow and even out. Ben waits until his breaths take on the rhythm of deep sleep before he finally gives into the urge. Slowly, so as not to disturb him, he reaches for Klaus and places a gentle hand on the nape of his neck, holding him close.

: : :

Klaus starts using not long after that.

He gets his hands on more of the midazolam he took for his jaw surgery, and from there it’s hydrocodone, diazepam—anything he can get his hands on, crushed and snorted like clockwork. Klaus spends more and more time beyond the walls of the academy, slipping out like a shadow the moment the sun begins to set, not returning until after the dawn has broken.

He doesn’t tell Ben where he goes. But then again, Ben never asks.

The only thing he _is_ sure of, is that the nightmares have stopped. When Klaus does spend the night at home, Ben can always find him passed out in his room, fully dressed on top of the covers. Ben spends endless moments hovering in the doorway like an apparition, utterly transfixed and unable to tear himself away.

When the nightmares stop, so do Klaus’s night-time visits. Ben isn’t a selfish person by nature, but he knows he’s already far too greedy where Klaus is concerned, because he can’t help it: he misses it. Misses the way Klaus would slip into his room and bury his tear-streaked face into his shoulder. Misses the way Klaus would smile at him the next morning, like something secret. Misses how for even just a few hours in the darkest point of the night, it was Klaus who needed _him_.

: : :

Ben is seventeen when he slips into Klaus’s bed for the first time.

Newly-deceased and refusing to accept it, he’d flittered from room to room all morning, shouting at his siblings, screaming and crying and begging them to notice him. Eventually they’d all filed out, red-eyed and grief-stricken, all dressed in their Sunday Best, dark clothes more fit for a funeral than for church.

 _My funeral_ , he realises. _It’s my funeral because I’m dead I died I died I died._

There’s only one thing keeping him from spiralling into an all-out panic. One fact, solid and immutable, that cuts through his bone-deep despair: Klaus. Klaus can see ghosts. And if he really is dead—if he really is both here and very much _not here_ —then that can only mean one thing.

Klaus wasn’t with the others as they were getting ready to leave this morning, and he isn’t among them when they return. But he did leave his bedroom door ajar. Ben slips inside, furtive and cautious. Ben can count on one hand the number of times he’s been inside Klaus’s bedroom. It’s always been Klaus reaching out to him, closing the distance between them while Ben, ever shy and always hesitant, had held him at arm’s length.

Klaus’s bedroom walls are covered in graffiti, his messy scrawl covering the old, chipped paint. There are a hundred knick-knacks and trinkets strewn about the place and Ben wants to pry, wants to learn the story behind each and every one of them. But when his eyes fall on the unmade bed, he feels exhaustion weigh heavier than curiosity. He collapses face-first into sheets that smell of Klaus, worn and soft, and so, so familiar.

It’s dark by the time Klaus returns.

Ben’s eyes fly open at the first sounds of movement. It’s Klaus, climbing in through his own window, his black clothes crumpled and his tie long forgotten.

So he did go to the funeral. Or at least he intended to.

“Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no—”

Ben takes a deep breath and finds it to be utterly useless. “Klaus, just stay calm.”

“—no, no, no, _no_.”

“Shhh Klaus, keep your voice down.”

“You can’t be here,” he shouts, heedless of Ben’s pleas for quiet. He’s gripping his hair, his eyes wide and manic. “You can’t be here, you are not here, you are _not._ ”

“Klaus, please,” he says, a bubble of panic rising in his chest. “Please just calm down.”

“I can’t do this. I can’t, I can’t—”

“Klaus—”

“—I won’t,” he says, defiant. “No, see, you’re gonna go. You’re gonna follow the light, and you’re gonna leave me alone, and go to a—a better place, somewhere that’s _not_ here.”

Ben’s chest aches in the place where his heart used to be. “There’s no light, Klaus. There’s nowhere else I can go. I don’t even know how I got here, or why this is happening—”

But Klaus isn’t listening to him. He’s rifling through his dresser drawer, tossing clothes over his shoulder.

“Klaus,” he says cautiously. “Klaus, what are you doing?”

Klaus doesn’t reply, just keeps muttering _please please please_ under his breath as his search becomes increasingly frantic. When he finally finds what he’s looking for, Ben stops dead in his tracks.

“Klaus. Don’t. Please, can we just—can we just talk about this?” But Klaus is already prying open the tiny baggie and carefully tapping out two neat lines.

“Klaus, wait.” Before Ben can think better of it, he reaches for Klaus, moves to grab him by the shoulder, and at the point where their bodies meet, there’s—nothing. Nothing at all. Ben’s hand passes straight through him, as if he were drawing it through empty air, and it’s at that moment that it hits him: he’s dead. He’s no longer a part of this world. He’ll never touch Klaus, never touch _anyone_ again.

Ben sinks to the floor in a muted terror, collapsing in a heap like a puppet with cut strings. Klaus does the lines in record speed then slides to the floor with a groan, the two of them perfect mirrors of each other. Klaus’s eyes are closed but Ben can’t look away; he’s captivated by the rise and fall of Klaus’s chest as his breathing evens out, by the way his pinched expression relaxes with every passing second. Klaus almost looks serene, as if he could be sleeping or meditating. As if he weren’t being haunted by the ghost of his dead brother.

The sun is starting to rise by the time Klaus’s eyes flutter open. He shifts a little, stretching out the kinks in his back and shifting into a lotus position. For a moment his eyes are drawn to the rising sun, his face bathed in the gold light, shrouded in it. He drops his gaze slowly, pupils blown and eyes hazy, until his eyes fall on Ben.

“Fuck,” he says, startled. “You’re back already.”

Ben opens his mouth then closes it just as quickly. What can he say to that? He knows that Klaus’s drug habit keeps the ghosts at bay for days at a time, weeks if he’s in good supply. Ben had expected to disappear the moment the drugs hit his system, to just evaporate into nothingness. He wishes for Klaus’s sake that he had.

“God,” Klaus says, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes. “’M crashing,” he mumbles into his palms. With what seems like a herculean effort, he drags himself across five feet of carpet to clamber up onto his bed, then rolls over until he’s pressed right against the wall, eyes closed and lips parted.

Ben wars with himself for what feels like an age. He feels as if he’s twelve again, hovering anxiously outside Klaus’s bedroom door, hesitating indefinitely until the moment passes him by. Finally, after several long minutes, he cautiously rises from his spot on the floor, approaches the bed, and settles in next to Klaus.

: : :

In hindsight, Ben should have seen this coming.

In the months following his death, he spends more time by Klaus’s side than he has at any point in their lives, the newfound proximity as natural as breathing. Ben has always been drawn to Klaus—he supposes he can admit at least that much to himself. Klaus has been a well of gravity at the centre of his life, an inexorable force that drags him into his orbit. So it seems only fitting that even in death, Ben can’t escape him. Klaus grows accustomed to Ben’s presence with a tired sort of resignation, and it’s not long before he’s carrying on with his life as if Ben’s not even there.

Which is probably why Ben should have expected this.

“God… _fuck._ ”

Ben raises an eyebrow from across the room. Even in the dim light of his bedroom, there’s no mistaking what Klaus is doing.

“You know I can hear you, right?”

Klaus huffs. “What, so I’m not supposed to jerk off ever again just because my brother’s a pervert?”

Ben bites his lip. He can’t deny that the sight of Klaus flushed and tangled in the sheets is enough to send his heart racing, enough to make his blood run hot. Or at least it would be if he still had any of those things.

“You’re the one who started touching yourself in front of me,” he points out.

Klaus laughs, breathless. “So what would you prefer I do? Jerk off in the shower?”

“You do jerk off in the shower.”

Klaus’s hand stops. He pushes himself into a half-seated position. “You know about that?”

Ben laughs, the sound too loud in the silent room, but it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have to worry about waking anyone.

“Klaus. I know about everything.”

Klaus groans and flops back onto the bed, throwing an arm over his eyes. It is true, though. In the last few months, Ben has seen it all: the back-alley drug deals, the nightclub bathroom hook-ups. He’s seen what happens when Klaus tries to scam someone and he gets caught out; has stood by helplessly as half a dozen guys bruised their knuckles on Klaus’s bloody face. He’s seen what happens when Klaus doesn’t get a fix; has spent long hours sitting by the bathtub, reading poetry aloud while Klaus shudders and shakes. But perhaps most frighteningly, he’s seen what happens when Klaus takes it too far, when he misjudges a dose or decides he just doesn’t care anymore. He’s seen Klaus ragdoll-limp, eyes glassy and unseeing, completely unresponsive even as Ben screams his name. 

All things considered, watching him rub one out seems pretty tame by comparison.

“God, I just. I can’t—It’s the fucking E,” he says with a groan. “What kind of drug makes you horny but makes it impossible to get off?” He picks up the pace again, his hand moving erratically beneath the sheet. Ben suppresses the urge to lick his lips, but only just.

“Jesus, slow down before you give yourself an injury.”

“What do you know—I mean, can you even?”

A beat. “Can I what?”

“Nevermind,” Klaus says quickly. But he does begin to slow, slightly.

“That’s it, just take it slow,” Ben says, his voice low. “Tighten your grip a little,” he says, growing bolder now, and Klaus whines at that, arching off the bed and fucking his fist. “Keep your hips still. Just let it build.”

Klaus is barely moving now, just squeezing himself under the sheet, eyes screwed shut as his breath comes in gasps. Ben can’t tear his eyes off his mouth, open and panting, or his chest where his muscles are pulled taut. More than ever he wants to touch, to run his hands over the planes of Klaus’s body, to be the one who forces those sounds out of him.

When Klaus finally comes, he doesn’t scream like Ben thought he would. He just lets out a long, drawn-out _fuck_ that he quickly stifles in the crook of his arm. He squeezes his dick a few more times, shuddering with the aftershocks, then uses the sheet to wipe off the mess before kicking it off the bed completely.

Ben’s mesmerised by the sight of him, sprawled out and flushed, his dick still hard against his thigh, and he opens his mouth to say something. He can feel the words rise in this throat even as his mind scrambles frantically to find the right thing to say. He knows there won’t be another moment like this, that he has to say something, _anything_.

But then Klaus tugs the comforter up to his waist and turns off the bedside lamp, plunging to room into darkness as he settles in to sleep. Wordlessly, as if Ben weren’t even there at all.

: : :

There’s a part of Ben that can’t help but wonder if this is karma. Not dying, exactly. He knows he didn’t deserve that. But being here, tethered to Klaus for what may very well be eternity, caught in suspension, neither here nor there.

One night he says, “I never believed you. Back when we were kids.”

Klaus’s face gives nothing away, and Ben knows he’s making a huge mistake. But now that the words are spilling out, he can do little to rein them in. “I knew you were scared. After what Dad did to you, what he did to all of us, it’s no wonder you had nightmares. And I also thought maybe you were a little—a little lonely. But I always thought,” he starts, and his words die in his throat because Klaus is _laughing_ , loud and raucous, his whole body shaking with it. Like Ben’s just told the funniest joke in the universe.

Finally Klaus manages to contain himself. He wipes the tears from his eyes, his shoulders still shaking with the last dregs of laughter. “Yeah, you weren’t the only one,” he says, and lights another joint.

: : :

Klaus is a catastrophically disorganised person. It’s a fact Ben’s been aware of for as long as he can remember. Reliably unreliable, Klaus was sure to be late to everything from breakfast to training drills—assuming he even showed up at all. 

It’s a facet of his life that unfortunately, for the both of them, extends to his drug habit.

“Shit, I could have sworn I had—”

“You don’t,” Ben says, not looking up from his book.

“No, I _know_ I still had two pills left.”

“You took them Tuesday night.”

“What?” Klaus’s face is a caricature of confusion in Ben’s periphery. “No I didn’t.”

“You did,” he says, carefully turning the page, still refusing to look up. “You said, ‘I know I’m going to regret this later, but fuck it’.”

Klaus pauses his mad search, considering. Ben catches his expression out of the corner of his eye. He would almost find it amusing if the consequences weren’t so dire.

“Wait, I know! Emergency stash,” he singsongs.

“That’s for emergencies,” Ben says blandly. He’s lost count of how many times they’ve had this exact conversation. Klaus seems doomed to make the same mistakes over and over again, trapped in a vicious cycle with no way out, dragging Ben along with him. Ben already knows it’s futile, doesn’t even need to look up to know that Klaus is prying up the loose floorboard in his closet and searching blindly for whatever he has stashed away.

“You’re going to regret this later,” Ben murmurs.

“Fuck it,” Klaus says and tears open the baggie.

With Klaus being as disorganised as he is, it comes as something of a surprise that this time, he’s had the forethought to score well in advance.

In the last few weeks, Klaus has amassed a small hoard of treasure like some sort of overzealous magpie. Trinkets and heirlooms that he can pawn off to the highest bidder, some from inside the Academy and some not, all hidden away in his bedroom. Ben doesn’t know what he has planned, not exactly. Maybe he’s finally going to run away, strike out on his own. Klaus always used to talk about it. _I’d go north,_ he’d say. _Somewhere cold. Do you think I could hitchhike all the way to the border? Do you think it’d make the news?_ And then, quieter, _do you think Dad would even notice?_ At some point in the last few months, that _I_ had shifted to a _we_ , and Ben can’t quite quell the small spark of hope that lights up his cold, dead heart each and every time Klaus says it.

But Klaus doesn’t run away. Instead, he sells everything he’s amassed and buys enough barbiturates to kill an elephant.

“Hey.”

They’re on the roof, Klaus lying flat on his back and Ben just a few feet away. Klaus’s eyes are glassy and hooded, and if it weren’t for the steady rise of his chest, Ben would assume the worst. Klaus addresses Ben with something like surprise, as if he’s just materialised right before his eyes. As if he’s suddenly popped into existence.

“Hey,” Klaus says again, the syllable becoming elastic as he stretches it. “Hey!”

“Hi.”

“You’re here,” he says slowly, his voice softened with quiet disbelief.

“Of course I’m here. Where else would I be?”

“I don’t know,” Klaus says, then mumbles something unintelligible.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, ‘I don’t understand why you stick with me.’”

Ben’s voice catches in his throat. If he were cruel he would say, _I don’t have a choice,_ but what he really wants to say is, _I wouldn’t leave you, even if I could. I wouldn’t know how._

Both seem far too brutal in their honesty. So instead he says, “Why do you say that?”

“Because—you know.” His voice breaks. Ben stares. Klaus’s eyes are wide and wet and pleading when he finally meets Ben’s gaze. As he lets his eyes fall shut, a tear escapes. “Please don’t make me say it,” he whispers.

Ben is frozen in place, his mind racing. “Klaus. I don’t know—”

“I was the lookout, Ben, you _know_ I was the lookout, you know that I—that it was me—”

Ben’s voice is very soft. “Klaus.”

“I was supposed to give a signal, I was supposed to _warn_ you, but—”

Klaus is hyperventilating, his brow covered in a sheen of sweat. Ben doesn’t know how he can possibly be so worked up, even with so much medical-grade phenobarbital in his system. But there’s a well of guilt in Klaus’s eyes, something deep and unfathomable that tells Ben he’s been holding onto this for months now.

“Klaus, look at me. Just breathe, okay?” Klaus screws his eyes shut, as if he can’t even bear to look at him, but he does take a few deep breaths. “There, that’s better, just keep breathing—”

“I didn’t go to your funeral,” he says in a rush, then claps both hands over his mouth, eyes wide with shock.

Ben stills. “Klaus.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t go to your funeral and I’m sorry that you died, and I’m sorry that it was—that it was my fault.”

Ben feels the ground shift beneath his hands and it’s not until they’re close enough to touch that he realises he’s crossed the space between them. He wants to pry Klaus’s hands away from his mouth, to pin down Klaus’s body with his own, and to hold him until he stops shaking. But he can’t. He stops himself an arm’s length away, the distance between them utterly insurmountable.

“Klaus, it wasn’t your—” Klaus’s red-rimmed glare stops him in his tracks. Now isn’t the time for trite placations. So instead, he settles for the only thing he can say: the truth.

“I don’t blame you.”

Klaus is halfway to saying something, his mouth half-open, and a fierce determination to the set of his shoulders. He’s completely frozen, and it would be almost comical if Ben didn’t ache with a need to make him understand.

“I don’t blame you,” he says again. “I don’t blame you, Klaus, and I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it. I don’t blame you.”

A wet, strangled sound comes out of Klaus’s throat. Finally, he closes his mouth and nods mutely.

Ben doesn’t touch him, can’t touch him, but he does lie down next to him. Toe to toe and shoulder to shoulder, side by side just like when they were kids. The city hums around them, and for a long time it’s just the sound of Klaus’s shaky breaths and the rumble of distant traffic.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year,” Klaus whispers suddenly.

Ben flinches, the emotional impact of Klaus’s words hitting him like a physical blow. Of course. The meticulous hoarding, the careful planning. The guarantee that he wouldn’t have to face today sober. Ben knew today was the anniversary of his death, had been counting down the days with an impending sense of dread. He hadn’t expected Klaus to remember.

Shoving down those feelings, Ben tries his best to keep his tone light. “I guess it looks like I’m here to stay.” He turns towards Klaus and offers him a small smile and Klaus, tear-streaked and trembling, somehow manages to smile back.


	2. Chapter 2

_The Persephone Headline is a gift marker that traverses the palm. People who carry this marker are said to be guides for lost souls. The Jacob’s Ladder is found on the outer edge of the palm and speaks of extreme yin energy, as well as self-torment in the absence of action. People with this marker often also carry the Saturn Attack Line, a conflict line that represents insecurity and isolation._

: : :

Ben still remembers the last time he’d touched Klaus.

Seventeen and full of bravado, Klaus is cocky, confident, and completely at ease with himself. He’s amicably tactile, always slinging an arm around Ben’s shoulder or messing up his hair, thoughtless touches that have Ben holding his breath, have him holding himself still so he doesn’t give himself away.

This time, it’s different.

They’re at a mission briefing; Luther barking out orders while their father stands to his right, nodding his silent approval. Allison and Diego listen with rapt attention, although Diego does little to hide his growing scowl. Klaus sits to Ben’s left, fidgeting relentlessly. Vanya is, of course, absent.

Luther explains their strategy, and Ben accepts his role with a quiet resignation. With Five gone, their missions have taken on a more aggressive approach. They’re more dangerous, often involving more bloodshed than what he can stomach. But he knows better than to voice his doubts.

As if picking up on his discomfort, Klaus surreptitiously reaches for him under the table. His hand finds the bare skin of his knee just below his uniform shorts, and squeezes him gently.

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispers. “You’re gonna do great.”

The simple touch sends a shiver up Ben’s body, and all he can do is nod. Slowly, so as to not draw the attention of the others, Ben slides his own hand under the table and quickly finds Klaus’s, squeezing back. It’s nice, he thinks, to feel Klaus’s hand warm under his, even if it makes his heart thrum against his ribs, kicked into overdrive from the most innocent of touches. He resolves to do it more often.

But Ben dies not two hours later, and all hope of ever touching Klaus dies along with him.

The next time Ben touches Klaus, Klaus is newly-sober, and Ben is still very much dead.

Perhaps it was too much to hope that sobriety would stick the first time around. Klaus isn’t adjusting well, and there’s little Ben can do to convince him to stay the course. Twenty-four hours of sobriety sees Klaus shaking a couple of pills out into his hand, and Ben may recognise a lost cause when he sees one, but he can’t _not_ try.

“I’m tired of seeing you wallow in self-defeat,” Ben says. “You’re better than that.”

“Yeah? Well avert your gaze,” he says and pops the pills into his mouth.

Ben doesn’t think. He doesn’t think about how he isn’t real anymore, how he melts straight through anything he tries to touch. Doesn’t think that there’s literally nothing he could do to stop Klaus, nothing he could do to intervene. Ben doesn’t think: he reacts on pure instinct, turning and swinging blindly.

Neither of them expect the impact of the hit. Ben gasps breathlessly, his hand aching with a pain he hasn’t felt in years. Klaus stumbles backwards, the force of the blow knocking the pills right out of his mouth, eyes wide with equal parts shock and awe.

“You just Patrick Swayze’d me,” he whispers, touching is face gingerly. “How did you do that?”

Ben looks down at his hands still poised in a defensive stance, a fight technique drilled into him from a lifetime ago. They’re no more solid and real than they were five minutes ago. Finally, he manages to speak.

“I didn’t. You did.”

: : :

After that, it’s impossible for Ben to think of anything else. Ben would be lying if he said his reasons for helping Klaus develop his powers were purely altruistic, but he’s long since accepted that he’s helplessly selfish when it comes to Klaus. That contact—however brief—had been the first thing he’d felt in years, and the thought of touching Klaus again after all this time is completely and utterly intoxicating. They spend endless hours holed up in Klaus’s bedroom, Klaus’s eyes screwed shut in concentration as he tries to make Ben manifest.

“Just focus,” Ben whispers.

“I am focusing!”

“Okay, but try to concentrate.”

Klaus cracks open an eye, irritated. “You telling me to concentrate is disturbing my concentration.”

At this point, they’ve tried almost everything. Ben’s tried hitting Klaus again, had even felt the tension in his muscles as he would up for a punch that didn’t connect. He’s tried tackling Klaus, running straight at him only to pass _through_ him. In a burst of inspiration, Klaus had suggested they play patty cake, and after half an hour of pushing his palms straight through Klaus’s, they’d given up on that too.

So now they’re down to an old standby: meditation. For years, meditation was the only thing that would allow Klaus to control his powers, that allowed him to shut out the ghostly visions that haunted him at every turn. That was, until he started using.

“Just—focus,” he says as Klaus closes his eyes again.

Klaus is sitting in the lotus position, his palms turned upwards like an offering. It’s strange to see him like this. Usually he’s full of exuberance, the overwhelming force of his personality projected outwards. Ben doesn’t believe in auras but it’s easy to imagine Klaus has one, the energy coming off him in waves so powerful, they’re almost physically palpable. Now, all of that energy is turned inwards. Ben senses nothing, sees no movement save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Ben still doesn’t feel solid, but he won’t know until he tries. So he silently crawls across the floor towards Klaus and stops just in front of him, less than an arm’s length away. He reaches out cautiously, his hand hovering inches above Klaus’s. This close, he can see the lines of his palms where they peek out from under his tattoos.

When they were kids, Klaus had taught him how to read palms. Ben hadn’t really believed in it, but he was helplessly captivated as Klaus pointed out the lines of his own hand, and had tried not to shiver when Klaus took his hands to do the same. Now, Ben can’t help but be drawn to the familiar web of lines that stand out from under his ink, seeking out the markers Klaus had shown him all those years ago. Ben’s fingers are so close to his hands, hovering right over them in fact—until they aren’t.

Ben touches his index finger to Klaus’s lifeline, tracing the arch down to the base of his palm. Klaus’s hand is warm and dry under his touch, and Ben can’t hold back his gasp at the feeling of Klaus’s skin underneath his fingertips.

“Can you feel—”

“Yes,” Klaus whispers, still not opening his eyes. “Keep going.”

Ben traces it back the other way, moving across his palm until he reaches his heartline. It’s bisected by his Saturn Attack Line, which he follows downwards until he reaches his Persephone Mark. Klaus’s eyelashes flutter with every press of Ben’s fingers, his breathing slow and even. Finally, Ben traces Klaus’s tattoo, his fingers gliding over the bold letters.

Klaus’s voice trembles when he finally breaks the silence. “Keep going.”

Ben pauses, his finger still lingering on the _E_ of his tattoo. He swallows hard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Ben lets his fingers glide over the delicate skin of Klaus’s wrist, following the veins that lead up from his palm. The skin here is surprisingly soft, as soft as he remembers from back when they were teenagers. Ben traces the circle of his umbrella tattoo, the same one that’s mirrored on his own skin, the one that marks them as special. Klaus’s breath hitches with every featherlight touch, and when Ben draws his fingers back to his wrist, his pulse is thrumming rabbit-quick under his skin.

Klaus looks so vulnerable like this, eyes closed and palms turned up in surrender. His lips are soft and parted slightly, and Ben hasn’t wanted anything more in his life. Ben has wanted to kiss Klaus ever since he learned that boys could kiss boys, has wanted to feel him gasp against his lips, has wanted to lick his way into Klaus’s mouth and feel him open up beneath him. As if in a trance, he extends a hand to cup Klaus’s face, drawn to him as if by magnetism, some inexplicable force that goes beyond the science of physics. Klaus leans into his touch, his face turned upwards, and when Ben runs a thumb over his lower lip he seems utterly helpless to stop a gasp that rings out loudly in the silent room.

Ben is frozen in time, hovering just inches away. All he has to do is lean forward and press his lips to Klaus’s. It’s as if he’s a kid again; shy and nervous and far too hesitant, always waiting just a second too long, and Ben can’t help but feel like this is history repeating because suddenly, the house begins to shake around them. The moment’s gone. Klaus’s eyes fly open, his concentration broken, and Ben’s hand passes right through his face, immaterial once more.

“What was that?”

Ben is like a deer in headlights, wide-eyed shock written all over his face. They sit frozen for a moment until there’s another loud noise, and the house shakes again. They arrive at the same conclusion at exactly the same moment.

“Vanya,” they say in unison, and scramble to their feet.

: : :

None of them ever anticipated Vanya would be the one bring about the apocalypse, and none of them ever expected Five’s plan would work. Above all, none of them could have ever predicted that when Five returned them to the present, Ben would be right there with them; real life flesh and blood, heart pounding and breath coming in quick.

“Ben?” says Allison, shocked. Six pairs of eyes turn towards him and fixate _on_ him, rather than through him. He’s never felt more exposed.

“Hey,” he manages weakly.

Her eyes brim with tears as she draws him into a hug, the first human contact he’s had in over a decade. “It’s so good to have you back,” she whispers in his ear.

 _I never left_ , is what he wants to say, but he’s too busy trying to catch Klaus’s eye. Klaus, who has been with him throughout his life, throughout his death, and is now looking past him very pointedly. As if he weren’t even there at all. 

: : :

They celebrate with donuts. The old diner they used to visit is still standing now that they’ve saved it from a meteor-induced fireball, and the coffee is every bit as terrible as Ben remembers. Luther is giving a speech about teamwork and family, and there’s a lot to say about how they came together to save the world against all odds. But it’s a hollow victory.

Vanya is pale, her hands trembling as she adds sugar to a coffee that she doesn’t drink. Allison keeps touching her throat, tracing some invisible scar that exists only in her mind. Five is looking down at his hands, the hands of a teenager, in silent disbelief. And Klaus—

Klaus isn’t fidgeting. Klaus isn’t talking. Klaus isn’t meeting anyone’s eyes, especially not Ben’s. He just stares into the depths of his coffee, morose like he’s on the back of a bad comedown, his whole focus gone internal.

When Allison asks Ben what he plans to do now that he’s alive again, his heart stutters. It’s a feeling to which he’s wholly unaccustomed. “I’m not sure,” he says, looking at Klaus.

As they part ways, Ben hovers on the outskirts just as he always has—silent, just as he’s always been. Klaus is dawdling, hanging back at the diner, and when he finally catches up he makes a beeline for Diego.

“Hey, can I get a ride with you?” Diego opens his mouth but Klaus is already cutting him off. “Thanks so much, you’re the best, knew I could count on you.”

Klaus doesn’t so much as look at Ben as he passes, his indifference piercing Ben like a knife to the gut. The wound pains him like a hurt he has no words for; to have spent years being seen by Klaus and Klaus alone, only to have him stare straight through him.

As if he were invisible.

As if he were a ghost.

: : :

Ben realises almost immediately that he has nowhere to go, so it shouldn’t surprise him when he finds himself back to the Academy.

Already, Klaus’s absence feels like an amputation, the phantom pain cutting him to his core. Ben is haunted by his memory: at every turn, every moment, Ben expects him; expects the sound of his laughter, expects to see him standing nearby—always just out of reach. Now the air is heavy with silence, and Ben doesn’t need to search the house to know that for the first time in his life, he is devastatingly alone. 

Ben’s feet carry him to his bedroom, retracing his steps through the familiar halls, but he finds himself hesitating over the threshold. He hasn’t spent much time here since he died, and it almost feels as though the room belongs to someone else. It’s completely untouched, a perfect preservation of his seventeen year old self, all of his favourite books and comics exactly where he left them. Try as he might, he can’t make himself go in. It feels too cold, too impersonal. So instead he finds a place that isn’t.

Klaus’s bedroom is exactly as he remembers, even though he’s not sure they’re even in the same timeline anymore. He breathes in nag champa, sage, and cigarette smoke, the familiar scents easing some of the tightness in his chest. Klaus’s room full of plush armchairs and floor cushions, but Ben makes straight for the bed. As he pulls back the covers, he enjoys the luxury of the soft, worn fabric under his skin. It comes with the realisation that he’s never actually touched these sheets before, not physically.

Darkness has long since fallen, and for the first time in years Ben feels tired within his body, a bone-deep exhaustion bearing down on him down like lead weights. So he strips down to his underwear and slips under the covers, onto sheets that smell like Klaus, and feels himself drift off almost immediately.

It's still dark when Ben wakes again.

The door to Klaus’s room is heavy, made from solid wood, and it creaks every time without fail. It’s a familiar sound, and Ben finds himself wide-eyed and alert even as a wedge of light spills in from the hallway to illuminate the room. Ben hears bare footsteps on the hardwood floor until they’re muffled by the carpet, and he doesn’t have to turn. There’s only one person that could be.

Klaus closes the door behind him and the darkness becomes complete. He crosses the floor silently, like a trespasser in his own bedroom, and Ben can hear the rustle of clothing, the tug of a zipper as Klaus silently undresses. Ben remains stock-still, holding his breath even as his heart hammers in his ears, just as he did when he was a kid. Klaus, like always, doesn’t call him out on his charade. Instead, he pulls back the covers and wordlessly lies down next to him.

For a long time Ben just listens to the combined sounds of their breathing, savouring the novelty of taking a breath and feeling his chest expand with it. Klaus’s body is hot where it’s pressed against his, skin on skin, both of them crammed side-by-side in the tiny bed. Ben is just starting to relax against him when Klaus suddenly breaks the silence.

“Couldn’t sleep. It was weird, you know. Not having you there.” He’s whispering as if he’s sharing a secret, something that can be confided only in darkness. “I know after all the bullshit I put you through I’m probably the last person you want to see, but”—he shifts slightly and Ben can feel his stare on the back of his head—“it didn’t feel right.”

Ben’s heart jumps in his throat, anxiety surging through him as he grapples with indecision. He wants to reach out but, like always, he finds himself hesitating. But as the seconds lengthen, his fear of letting this moment slip away gradually outweighs the fear of what might happens if he chooses to act, so he slowly shifts onto his side to peer at Klaus through the darkness. From there, it’s easy to lay a hand on the flat of Klaus’s stomach, his fingers splayed so he can feel the way Klaus’s muscles jump under his touch.

For one, heart-stopping moment, Ben’s terrified he’s crossed some invisible line, tumbled straight off a precipice from which he can never return. But then Klaus covers his hand with his own, gentle fingers stroking the ridges of his knuckles, and Ben breathes out a sigh, melting against him and resting his chin on his shoulder. This simple, human contact is something he’s missed for years, and now that he’s started touching Klaus he can’t seem to stop. He slides his hand under Klaus’s shirt, slowly as if he’s afraid Klaus is going to change his mind, and he’s only half-surprised when Klaus grabs his wrist.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again,” Klaus whispers, “now that you’re alive again. I thought after everything—after everything you’ve seen, everything I’ve put you through. I know I’m not always the easiest person to be around—”

“Klaus.” Ben silences him with two fingers on his lips and Klaus falls blessedly quiet. Ben remembers that night on the rooftop all those years ago and finds himself confiding a truth that’s been weighing on him for more than a decade. “I wouldn’t have left you, ever. Even if I could have.” Klaus makes a murmured sound against his fingers but Ben doesn’t let him speak, just drags his fingers down Klaus’s lower lip, and presses their lips together.

Kissing Klaus feels like the most natural thing in the world, feels as though this is what he was supposed to be doing his entire life, and it’s only death that’s stopped him. There’s something secret about it; curled up together under the blankets, shrouded in darkness, moving slowly against one another. Ben thinks about all the time he’s spent in this very room, dreaming of this exact moment, and the surreal nature of the situation makes his head spin. His hands roam Klaus’s body with a hunger that surprises even him, gliding down his sides, over his hips. Klaus’s skin is hot to the touch, a steady reminder that he’s alive, this is real, and it’s really, actually happening. He’s never done this with anyone before, and it only feels right that his first time should be with Klaus. When he finally slips his hand into Klaus’s underwear, Klaus groans into his mouth—a stifled _oh fuck yeah_ that makes Ben smile against his lips. Klaus lets out a bitten-off gasp when Ben gets a hand around him, the sound making Ben’s dick throb, desperation and desire growing deep in his gut.

Klaus is inexhaustibly chatty, his stream-of-consciousness consisting almost entirely of _fuck that’s so good_ and _yes just like that_. Klaus, whose restless hands have been roaming Ben’s skin incessantly, finally gets with the programme and presses the heel of his palm against Ben’s erection, the sudden friction impossibly gratifying. Within moments Ben finds himself babbling, gone stupid with arousal, begging and pleading for Klaus to touch him. Klaus, eager to please, is all too quick to comply, and within seconds he’s tugging impatiently at Ben’s underwear, spurred on by Ben’s pleas. Klaus has long, elegant fingers and they feel incredible where they’re wrapped around his cock, stroking him with a steady pressure. At some point, Ben hears himself say, “God I’ve wanted this for so long,” and he knows it was the wrong thing to say because Klaus’s hand stills immediately.

“How long?” he whispers.

Ben falters. It seems that the time for dishonesty and pretence has long since passed, especially when there’s not a soul alive who knows him better than Klaus. Ben opens his mouth but Klaus is already talking.

“I know that being dead and all it’s not like you had a lot of choice or anything, I mean I’ve _seen_ the way some ghosts look and I guess you could do worse—”

“Don’t do that,” he says, the words giving way to a gasp as Klaus idly runs his thumb around the head of his dick.

“Don’t do _that?_ ” he asks and repeats the action.

Ben stills him with a hand over his. “Don’t talk about yourself like that.”

Klaus falls silent. Ben listens to the rush of his own pulse as the seconds tick by. “Okay,” Klaus says softly, then kisses him again.

They touch each other like that, cramped together in the tiny bed, legs tangled and foreheads touching. The angle is awkward and it’s too hot under the covers, and it is completely and utterly perfect. Klaus is panting, letting out bitten-off groans, and when a desperate whine rises in his throat, Ben recognises the sound and knows that he’s close. Ben tightens his grip and moves just a little faster, an unrelenting pressure until Klaus is gasping and shuddering. The noise Klaus makes when he comes is devastating; Ben feels the pleasure sing through him as if it were his own, the sound impossibly gratifying because _he_ did that to Klaus, it was _his_ hands that made him unravel and fall apart.

The sky is just beginning to lighten, enough that he can make out the details of Klaus’s face through the gloom, and Ben thanks the heavens for it. If not, he would miss the sight of Klaus licking his hand clean, would miss the way he looks when he takes two of Ben’s fingers in his mouth and sucks them right down to the knuckle. He would miss Klaus’s dark eyes, would miss the flush high on his cheekbones as he draws off Ben’s fingers and slowly works his way down his body.

Ben’s seen this more times than he can even recall, has seen Klaus do this in grimy alleys and filthy bathrooms. But he’s never seen it happen in this bed, in this room that they’ve shared for as long as he can remember, and he’s never, ever seen it from this perspective. So when Klaus takes him in hand and leaves a trail of kisses up the underside of his dick, right up the shaft until he reaches the head, Ben thinks he can be excused for the truly desperate moan that escapes his throat. When Klaus locks eyes with him and takes the head into his mouth, lips hot and soft where they’re wrapped around him, Ben can’t help but reach for him, can’t help but get a shaky hand around the back of his head and guide him exactly where he wants him.

Klaus has always seemed so good at this. Ben has spent a lifetime watching other men tremble with pleasure, brought to ruin by Klaus’s mouth, always averting his eyes out of some misplaced sense of decorum, yet unable to resist sneaking sidelong glances and imagining exactly what it would feel like. And now that Klaus his taking him in his mouth and starting to move in earnest, Ben realises that it’s every bit as good as he imagined it would be. Ben is lost to the wet glide of his mouth, and he wants to close his eyes, to surrender completely to the sensation, but he can’t bear to take his eyes of Klaus.

Ben’s hands are trembling when he finally gives into the urge to bury them in Klaus’s hair. Ben _knows_ how much Klaus likes this, to be held down on someone’s cock, to have it pushed so far down his throat that he can barely breathe, and with Klaus’s moans encouraging him, it’s so easy to give into the urge, to fuck his face the way they both want it. Ben twists his hair between his fingers and lets his hips do all the work, forcing his way past Klaus’s lips until Ben is spilling down his throat and Klaus is moaning as he just _takes_ it. The pleasure overwhelms him completely, still hypersensitive from inhabiting a body he’s not quite used to, and he can only shudder as he comes harder than he’s ever come in his life, his orgasm seeming to go on forever as Klaus draws it out of him relentlessly.

They’re quiet as they catch their breath—Klaus uncharacteristically so. For a moment Ben thinks he’s died again with the way he feels as if he’s floating and not quite there. But when Klaus flops down next to him and drags one of Ben’s hands over his chest, Ben can feel the steady thrum of his heart and he thinks _this is real_. Ben links their fingers together, and there’s something unbearably right about the small gesture that sends a thrill through his whole body, something that’s somehow more intimate than the sex.

“Nineteen years,” Ben murmurs. The words fall from his lips before his thoughts can fully coalesce. Klaus turns to him, an unspoken question in his eyes. “I was eleven when I first realised that boys could like boys. And right away I thought of you, and I thought, ‘Oh. That’s what that is. That’s how I feel about Klaus.’”

Klaus brings their interlocked hands to his mouth and presses a kiss to the back of his knuckles. “I was twelve,” he whispers. “The very first time I came to you after a nightmare. I knew you were awake but you still didn’t kick me out. Not like the others. And I realised, I _liked_ being around you. There’s no one else in the world I would rather be haunted by than you.”

“Aww, that’s so romantic,” he deadpans.

“Shut up,” Klaus says, and shoves him hard. “Way to ruin the moment.”

Ben kisses the ridge of Klaus’s cheekbone, a silent apology. Klaus knows him so completely, knows him better than he knows himself, and now that it’s come to the surface—that one thing that’s always been unspoken between them—Ben lets the silence settle. Klaus is drawing patterns on the palm of his hand, tracing his lifeline, his heartline. Ben allows himself be lulled into the gentle rhythm of his touch, enjoying the feeling of Klaus pressed against him, secure in the knowledge he’ll still be there in the morning.

Suddenly Klaus gasps, loud and dramatic.

“Hold on,” he says. He releases Ben’s hand and props himself up on an elbow. When he turns to Ben, his eyes are wide with shock. “Did I just pop your cherry?”

“ _Klaus_.”

He gasps, covering his mouth with both hands. “I did, oh my god, _I did_.”

Ben grabs him by his narrow hips and manhandles him until Klaus is straddling his waist, his raucous laughter filling the room.

“You’re a colossal asshole. You know I could kill you without even lifting a finger?”

Klaus flashes him a shit-eating grin and splays his fingers over Ben’s chest. “Yeah, but you won’t,” he says, and presses a kiss to the corner of Ben’s mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for how Klaus started using was inspired by [this tumblr post](https://thequeenofthepirates.tumblr.com/post/183589749309/so-when-the-ua-were-kids-diego-mentioned-klaus).
> 
> You can also find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/scansionictus).


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